Wicked Game
by spamightwrite
Summary: Dean and Cesaro have a little ongoing competition between them. Ambrosaro.


Dean Ambrose was not a small man by any means. He was several inches over six feet tall, long in arms, legs and torso. His shoulders and chest were wide and strong, making his waist seem slight by comparison. And, as a result of his profession, he was bulging with muscles all over. Though he wasn't close to the biggest guy in the locker room, he was certainly larger than most people he passed on the street.

But as he was kneeling in the middle of the ring, spotlights burning above, thousands of people spectating, Antonio Cesaro was downright towering over him.

The Swiss Superman, indeed. The man was built like a Greek statue but with even better pecs. Cesaro exuded strength – no, power. His arms bulged with powerful veins, his chest, limbs, and stomach were lightly covered with dark hair, and his smiling eyes glowed with self-assurance.

And it helped that he held a kendo stick in one hand and Dean's shoulder bandages in the other.

They had nearly identical expressions as they stared into each others' eyes. They both smirked among the din of the crowd, which to the two of them had all but disappeared.

How many times had this happened before?

They'd managed to have these opportunities far more often than was typical for two wrestlers who had never directly feuded. Likely because they could pull off a filler match better than others possibly could on any given night. They had incredible chemistry, rarely having to plan very much beforehand. Like a perfect line of dominoes, each move flowed into another, telling the same story without speaking a word of it.

Even when it didn't go quite as planned. Especially when it didn't go as planned.

Before his team had gone their separate ways, Dean found himself in the ring with Cesaro during a tag match, in a similar position to the one he was in now. He had ended up on his knees, and received a slap to his cheek from the man hulking above him. It wasn't his full strength, not by a half-sight. But it looked – and sounded – merciless.

And in the face of this mock brutality, Dean sucked in a deep breath and laughed, his tongue hanging freely from his mouth.

Between the two men sparked new life at that moment, a surge of energy that neither of them could fathom in the heat of theatrics.

Cesaro took his jaw firmly in one hand, and then with the other hit him a second time, harder.

And Dean laughed a second time. Harder.

The man on his knees slammed his palm into the middle of the ring, and lay slaps across his own cheek, issuing a very clear challenge to his opponent.

Just before Dean made it to his feet again, two things were very obvious to him. One: the enigmatic, nigh-imperceptible smile on Cesaro's handsome face. What, was he amused by him? To be fair his act was pretty funny, if he had to say so himself, but it wasn't quite the time for Cesaro to be laughing. But his thoughts raced straight to the second thing: a bulge in his opponent's black trunks.

As much as he wanted to, there wasn't time to really appreciate it… or consider his sudden attraction. It wasn't strange for him to get that buzz in his blood whenever he stepped into the ring. The adrenaline, the sensations, he knew them to have that effect. But this was quite something else.

And he… really liked it. Enough to hazard talking to him about it right then and there.

But there was the live audience to consider, so he continued the charade, lay wild slaps all across Cesaro's face, slammed into him, got close enough to mumble in his ear.

"Hey Toni." That nickname Dean gave him. The one that annoyed the hell out of him… at first. "What's that in your trunks, huh? What kind of a game are we playin' here?"

Cesaro stopped, his surprise evident in the pause in his breath. But he didn't seem to want to justify it with a response, and the match went on without any other hitches.

Well, in his denial and refusal to talk, Dean had some semblance of an answer… but he had to know more. Had to get him alone for just a minute. That would be enough, wouldn't it?

So of course he spotted the very European Adonis by himself in the locker room later, dressing himself in suit slacks and a pinstripe button-down shirt that was just slightly too small in the exact right way. Having sent his Shield brethren away with some half-assed excuse and a wink, Dean strutted out from around the corner and clicked his tongue at the other man.

Cesaro looked up from his buttons, the subtle covering of hair still visible on his chest. His eyebrow quirked, seeming like he wanted to avoid this situation entirely. Still, he made an attempt to be gentlemanly. "Can I help you, Mr. Ambrose?"

Dean pretended to gag, then smirked with his tongue clamped between his teeth. "Toni, how long have we known each other? Two, three years? Mr. Ambrose - What are we, school teachers?"

A vein appeared in Cesaro's forehead. He didn't expect the utmost formality out of this one, but he was really pushing it. "Metaphors aside, what do you need from me? You have never been one for charades, so I would appreciate it if you would just be direct with me."

"So serious," Dean observed, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Relax, okay? I'm just here to talk to you about our little tussle back there."

"And what about it?"

"Oh, nothing important, just… that hard-on I saw you spring."

Scheiße… had it really been that obvious? Cesaro was tired, confused, and sore from the match and in no mood to discuss this sort of thing with this… well. Schweinhund came to mind. But he was hesitant to label Dean with that moniker. Even if he was far too casual, scruffy, downright reckless, he was also talented, driven, passionate. Cesaro admired that in him.

Yet this was far too much. Too intimate a detail to discuss with him, especially in public.

He sighed and shot an upward glare at Dean. "It had nothing to do with you, I assure you."

Cesaro could hear him grinning, even after he had pointedly looked away to concentrate on buttoning his shirt.

"Then why did it only come up after you slapped me in the face?"

"Coincidence, I would guess."

"Hm. You skipped a button, you know."

He looked down. "Scheiße," he said aloud this time.

"I knew it," Dean snickered, approaching steadily. "You and I really aren't so different, even if I'm a filthy American pig-dog or whatever. You get in the ring, you've got another guy in a headlock, all your skin is rubbing together…" his voice was becoming lower with every word until he was growling, sending goose prickles all along Cesaro's arms. "And suddenly," he slapped his hands once, the echo exploding against the walls, "you're harder than hell over some asshole American."

He'd undone his buttons again, his shirt now entirely open. His hands dropped to his sides as he found Dean just a step away, hunched forward, grinning in that way that he did with those dimples on his cheeks.

He could have just as easily punched him in the face, but he took the more civilized route: deflecting.

"You wouldn't be asking me about this if there wasn't something in it for you, as well. May I go ahead and assume you were in a similar state as I was? I suppose it's harder to tell with your SWAT uniform."

Dean laughed. Well, that didn't work. He raised his hands, palms facing him. "Ooh-hoo, you caught me! See, I knew you were smart. All those languages, that very impressive degree… Not just all for show, huh?"

Cesaro caught him by the collar of his shirt and whirled him around, slamming him against the lockers with ease. Dean winced at the impact but went on grinning thereafter.

"Ahahaha… oh, careful now," Dean panted. "Those are some really nice pants, probably cost more than my apartment. Don't wanna tear a hole in the front of 'em, do ya?"

"What do you want from me, Ambrose?" seethed his adversary, willfully ignoring the growing erection that Dean had just pointed out. What was it about this bastard that got him this way? There wasn't anything going on down there until… he thought of how it felt to have him under his grasp.

"Ya like games?"

His breath was puffing out hot from his nose, his stomach twisting. "Excuse me?"

"If you're up for the challenge," Dean continued, slipping away from Cesaro's hand, "there's a little game I think we'd both enjoy."

Up for the challenge?

"You insult me." Cesaro smiled nonetheless. No sense in denying it at that point. Dean had read him like a book. And he could never pass up a challenge…

For each of the matches they had following that conversation in the locker room, they played this little game that Dean had formulated. To the knowledge of no one else but the two of them, in spite of the thousands of spectators, the TV cameras, the management constantly whispering commands, there was more at stake than just the match.

All of this led up to the present moment, wherein Cesaro held Dean up by the stretching bandages on his arm and shoulder. With nothing more than a glance between them, the challenge was all but renewed.

Out of earshot from the cameras and microphones, Dean growled, "I see we're playing this game again, aren't we?"

Cesaro cocked his head to the side, his eyebrow lifted with confidence. "I only play when you do, my friend." Over time, Cesaro had softened a bit to Dean's impish behavior. At the very least, he'd developed a sense of humor about it.

The match continued. To the audience, they were simply two men beating the hell out of each other. And they were – Cesaro and Dean both knew the other could take a stiff shot better than anyone else.

But the reason why they were beating the hell out of each other was absolutely separate from what everyone else expected.

Between spots, while they reeled from respective strikes, they glanced downward, between each others' legs.

Winner gets the other guy hard first.

They had both gotten quite good at this game. And their win records were even at that moment.

Not that it was easy for either of them. Like their matches, it always was a true battle, a fight to the finish.

The very finish.

At the end of the match, both combatants sweating, panting, aching from impact, Dean Ambrose clambered on top of Cesaro. He pushed both shoulders down, threw one leg over his waist, and remained there for the three count. Under the incredible noise of the audience, Dean found Cesaro only half-erect in his tight black trunks.

Dammit.

Cesaro must have noticed, too, for as soon as the referee reached "three", he mumbled, "I guess I've won this one."

"Guess so." Dean smirked for the cameras as he hauled himself to his feet for the ref to raise his hand into the air.

The two of them were always complete opposites at the end of each game, no matter who was the winner.

Dean was all clumsiness and breath and heat, loping through the halls and crashing through the door of whatever broom closet or private locker room they could snag. Cesaro always lagged behind, and not just so they wouldn't be caught. He maintained every level of control that he could in all aspects of their agreement. Striding at a steady pace, in no particular hurry.

And that always annoyed Dean a little bit.

Which is half the reason he was doing it this time.

Cesaro had endured a lot of shenanigans from his opponent, to be sure. From the very first day they'd met to the beginning of their game, it seemed Dean was always there to push his buttons. And for that, Antonio Cesaro thirsted for revenge.

And Dean, being predictable, would probably fall right into it.

By the time Cesaro rounded the corner, the curly-headed idiot was already looking out from behind the door with an expectant wave of his hand. Of course he was. Cesaro was halfway tempted to slow his gait even more, but he couldn't deny that he had been waiting for this, too.

He'd barely made it through the door of the private dressing room before the lock clicked shut behind him, and Dean had pounced. His long arms clamped around Cesaro's waist, mouth fumbled against his neck. A lovely shiver climbed up his back and branched out to his bare limbs and chest, hardening his nipples against Dean's torso. The both of them were still sweaty from the ring, but Dean especially, from his fever pitch attacks on Cesaro's body. Their skin slid against each other as they settled on the bench, Dean somehow remaining locked with the neck he was currently gnawing on.

Cesaro breathed out a chuckle and surveyed his surroundings. "Whose dressing room is this, anyway?"

"Dolph's," Dean mumbled wetly into his neck.

"He doesn't know we're in here, does he?"

He swallowed down some of the saliva he'd built up nibbling on Cesaro's skin. "Fuck no, he doesn't."

His teeth, lips, and tongue scraped and caressed him at some rather sensitive spots. Cesaro certainly enjoyed the sensation; it was bringing his half-chub to a full one, for sure.

But he was the winner of this game. Which meant only one thing.

"I appreciate your enthusiasm," he grasped Dean by the wrists and dropped his hands away from his middle, "but I'm in charge tonight, remember?"

Dean finally released Cesaro's neck and stared up at him with half of a smirk on his face. The other half was a desperate sort of lust that he seemed to have trouble controlling. "Come onnn," he growled, "You need this just as much as I do, I know it."

He went in for another bite, but was stopped by a palm on his forehead.

"No, no," Cesaro warned. "I won tonight, so you have to do as I say. So get down on your knees, Dean."

The scruffy one was pouting, but he followed his command and slid off the bench. But he couldn't help himself, it would appear – Dean crawled forward and laid his head on Cesaro's lap, rubbing his chin stubble against his bare thigh. He reached out and tugged at the waistband of his trunks before withering from a slap to his wrist.

"Dean," admonished the man above him, shoving his arm away.

He bit down on his lower lip with his snaggled front teeth, grasping Cesaro's knee pads. Dean squirmed where he knelt, his arousal even more obvious now than it was before, pressing the front of his jeans into a clear outline of his want.

"C'mon, Toni," Dean whined. "C'mon, I'm horny..."

"Hullo, Horny. My name is Antonio." He patted Dean on his curls and grinned from ear to ear. "Now, what did you want?"

There was something approaching murder in Dean's freezing blue eyes. But he knew there wouldn't be any arguing of this point. Cesaro took his roles very seriously. And so, with a shake of his head and an incensed sigh, Dean sat on his knees on the cold floor and laid his hands in his lap. He rested his chin on Cesaro's knee and stared up into the victor's eyes.

"I wanna suck you off or something. Come on, man. Please." No sooner did it come out of his mouth did he avert his gaze and gain a fetching blush across his cheeks.

And as reckless and irritating he usually was, Cesaro found this side of him rather cute. As cute as a shady individual like Dean Ambrose could be. Well, that wasn't entirely true. It wasn't just this in particular. He had a very interesting gaze, a natural charisma, a voice that commanded attention. And an oddly attractive boyish face...

Not to mention the petulance. He really enjoyed that. So he had to push him just a little farther.

"That sounds good. And you did ask... sort of nicely." Cesaro took a handful of his blonde curls and swirled them between his fingers. "But... I think I'd like to hear it again."

"Pleeeeaaase," Dean moaned, somewhat angrily. His cheek stubble rubbed against Cesaro's knee pad.

"Ah, ah," he corrected. "Not in English. You have to beg me in at least five languages."

"Oh come ON!"

Cesaro was far from the first of them to pull that stunt. It was during their last game, after a house show, where Dean had come out on top. As they were tangled up with each other in a broom closet, exchanging mouth touches and gropes, Dean had whispered into his ear.

"Beg me, beg me in some of those other languages you speak, huh? Beg me in French, Toni, I bet it sounds so hot..."

And he'd complied, of course. A gentleman always keeps his word, upholds his end of the wager. But Dean was merely bilingual – English, and bad English. He wasn't sure if the poor man would remember all those foreign words. Well. Only one way to find out, right?

"Well, karma is quite the bitch, isn't she? As they'd say in this country." Cesaro chuckled to himself and patted Dean on the shoulder. "You've already done English, so that's four more. We'll start with the easy one. Spanish. You know that one."

"Ugh," he groaned. His entire body slumped against Cesaro as he seemed to give up any semblance of dignity. "Ah... Por favor."

His accent was execrable, but his pronunciation was... coherent, at least.

"Tres bien. How about Italian? That's easy, it's almost the same."

"Per favore," came the growl from the very pit of his frustration.

"Good, very good." He took Dean's wrist in hand, drawing it up his own thigh and planting it just below his trunks. Without letting go, he prompted the next one. "Now, French?"

"Fuckin' goddamn..." Dean's fingertips dug into Cesaro's flesh, itching to go higher. "Seevooplay."

"Dean... ne comprendez pas."

"Oh fuck you," he mumbled. But then gulped down his pride and enunciated, "S'il vous plait?"

"Much better..." He pulled Dean's wrist up to his waistband and let go. "I'll admit that your terrible accent is kind of adorable."

"I'm gonna stiff the hell outta you in our next match," Dean sneered as he pulled down Cesaro's trunks. And lo and behold, the glory that was Cesaro's thick, uncut member was on full display. He leaned forward, his wicked tongue already running over his lips, but was once more stopped by Cesaro's palm.

Smiling down at his partner, he stroked his thumb over Dean's anger-lined forehead. "One more, Dean. You can do it. Let's hear it in German."

His blue eyes flickered away in thought. "Ah fuck, what was that again?"

Moments passed. A bottom lip was chewed, syllables were mouthed in silence.

He really was trying, bless him.

"Dean..."

They locked eyes.

Cesaro placed his hand on the back of Dean's head and pulled it towards his groin. "Dean... bitte?"

"Of fuckin' course."

Placing his big hands on Cesaro's hips, Dean took him between his lips, sucking gratefully with a smile on his face.

Cesaro let out a pleased sigh and leaned back against the locker behind him. The sensation of his soft lips and tongue hard at work was just melting the tension away from the rest of his body. He allowed his eyes to flutter open to look down at him. The way he pursed his lips, the concentration in the space between his eyebrows, the tiny sucking sounds and moans from his lungs...

Bonito. Mignon. Carino. Süß.

How would Dean put it?

Really fuckin' cute.


End file.
